He could go fuck himself.
At two minutes to nine she arrived at Warner Music Group and flew through the doors of the old Ford automobile factory.
Fuck, I’m late.
She rushed to the reception desk, where a young blond woman sat casually filing her acrylic nails.
“I’m Tyler Robertson,” she said, catching her breath.
The blond motioned toward the chairs. “Please, take a seat.”
Sweat trickled down Tyler’s sides.Fantastic. Pit stains. She flapped her elbows like a deranged chicken before collapsing into the nearest chair.She pulled out her phone and nearly dropped it—her hands slick from the heat. Dozens of messages waited, and she had to reply within her standard one-hour timeframe.
A notification flashed across her screen, and she checked Cary’s Instagram.
“Rory!” It was a picture of Cary with her dog, barely recognizable underneath the sheets, and he’d captioned it with a heart emoji.
Lucky dog.
She smiled and liked the picture.
The rest of Tyler’s day was packed. Everyone claimed they wanted to sign her band, but she knew better—LA was a fickle town. Meetings were easy to land; follow-through was rare. She’d been burned enough by Dave to learn that lesson.
The ASCAP crew was different. As a nonprofit, they had no agenda, and their CEO—along with many top execs—was a highly educated woman. It made Tyler trust them more than the usual industry sharks.
From beers with ASCAP, she slid into an Uber, the city lights blurring past. Slightly buzzed, she arrived at Cary’s art exhibit just before seven p.m.
The gallery was smaller than it looked on their website but, as far as she could tell, well-suited for a photography exhibit. She smiled at the life-size poster of her boyfriend on the front of the building. It readcary kingston: candid.
“Tyler Robertson,” she said to the tall, burly security guard who stood at the entrance like Saint Peter at the gates of heaven. She flashed him a toothy smile, but he didn’t reciprocate, probably because he had a serious job to do, like checking names off the guest list.
“I don’t see your name?” he said, all judgment. His gaze dragged from her head to her shoes, lips curling into a smirk.
Damn it.She’d meant to change out of the floral cotton dress, but one beer had turned into three.
“I’m on Cary Kingston’s list.” She dropped his name like a rap record.
The security guard flipped over the page and traced his finger down the list of names. “Got any ID?”
“Yes sir.” She reached inside her bag and pulled out her passport.
“Canadian?” he asked rhetorically, crossing her name off the list. She nodded and he stamped her wrist, returning her passport without saying anything.
Inside the gallery Tyler scanned the room, but it was hopeless to find anyone in the crowd so she texted Cary:Here.She hid in the corner to answer her messages. It was out of character for her not to reply immediately, but she found it impossible to work in the City of Angels and understood why Mötley Crüe shouted at the devil.
“Tyler!” Tommy crept up behind her before she could escape. “I’ve changed my mind.” He lifted two shrimp rolls from a plate of passing canapés. “I’ll take that band off your hands.”
“Yestown?” She waved away a tray of champagne. “Allie signed them.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Fucking bitch,” he muttered.
“You passed on them,” she reminded him. “Twice.”
He scoffed. “Yeah? We’ll see what Sebastien has to say about that. Speaking of . . .”
